


There's No Dying in Baseball

by Foophile



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-11
Updated: 2011-08-11
Packaged: 2017-10-22 12:53:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foophile/pseuds/Foophile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Then, much later, Nate’s going to salivate over Brad’s rifle so much that he’ll let him play with his grenade launcher, oh, and his cock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's No Dying in Baseball

**Author's Note:**

> Generation Kill and its characters belong to HBO. Fic is based solely on the fictional characters therein.

Nate’s never liked the word “mercenary”. It sounds like he’s an armed whore, ready to fight for anyone or any cause as long as there is some hefty compensation. His reasons for being in Iraq couldn’t be further from that.

Which is why, of course, he’s been ambushed by the enemy and is now embroiled in a very unfair fire fight.

He’s well armed, which makes him a nice mark on the streets of Baghdad, but guns mean fuck all without bullets. And he’s down to two clips.

On a bright note, the 87’ Volvo he’s taken cover behind is holding most of the bullets at bay. He can almost hear his father praising German engineering. Nate can also think of his mother screaming in horror at his current predicament and calling him an idiot for doing this with his West Point education and promising military career.

With bullets whizzing by from the dozen or so Feyadeen that have him pinned in a residential cul de sac, Nate’s inclined to agree that it was foolish – to come here alone. But that’s where the dreaded ‘mercenary’ part comes in.

He’s fired his next to last bullet when he notices that there is no return fire. Nate crawls on his hands and knees, grimacing as glass and dirt scrapes his skin. Then, he’s up, panicked and running somewhere, anywhere that has enough cover from the fucking twelve year old figuring out how to point an RPG in his direction.

There’s a minute of complete silence, probably since the kid can’t read the directions on the side and the weapon is heavy, but then there’s absolute chaos as Nate’s thrown literally off his intended path by someone tackling him from the side. They both go down hard.

A second later, the Volvo and everything else in a ten foot radius is blown to bits.

“Motherfucker,” is the first thing Nate hears after the ringing in his ears dulls to a reasonable level. Then, there are hands, rough, dirty hands, on his face, lifting his aching head and giving him a shake. There’s what feels like a truck weighing him down. “You alive?”

Nate opens his eyes and is blinded with light. “Get off me.”

“What?” The man, an American, yells at him.

“Get,” Nate spits out dirt and blinks a few times to get his bearings. Then he’s shoving at the giant man blanketed over his legs, “Off of me.”

The stranger gives Nate a look then rolls in the rubble just enough for him to free his legs. There’s still shooting going on a few dozen feet away, but for now they’re in the shelter of a small car park and the gang would have to bring down an occupied house in order to get to them.

“Nice gratitude there, buddy.”

Nate gets a better look at the man as he grouses. Tall, very tall – sore thumb material – with tuffs of blonde hair sticking out from a Dodgers baseball cap and beach boy blue eyes. Everything else is military. His ballistic vest is a little worn for wear, but bulging with equipment and ammo. There’s even a gas mask stuck haphazardly in one of the cargo pockets of his pants.

More importantly, the man is carrying one badass rifle and the slick smirk he gives Nate when he catches him eyeing it says that he knows it’s the shit.

Nate bets that he has plenty of ammo.

He’s about to suggest some friendly sharing when the Feyadeen finally catch on to their location and start firing in their usual blind bat way. Nate jumps.

“Forget we’re in a war, did ya?” The stranger perches himself on a crumbling wall and returns fire.

Nate glares. He has no ammo therefore can do shit to help and it makes him more than a little cranky. He mutters. “Fuck you.”

And through mortar fire and a hell of a lot of noise the stranger hears. Of course.

“And he’s eloquent too.” The man picks out a mag, throws it over his shoulder for Nate to catch, and replies, “Anytime, boy scout.”

After that there’s shooting and running. The Feyadeen seem to just want them out of the area and while Nate would love to see what they're hiding, he wants to fight another day much more. His new friend agrees and they end up running several long blocks until there’s nothing but the sound of the city going to shit (nothing new) in their wake.

“I hate running away,” Nate pants. He looks behind him and remembers that his transportation is past the gun wielding natives. His hope lies with the macked out Californian that keeps staring at him like he’s a bingo card.

As he catches his breath, Nate concedes that the man is rather attractive, he’s not blind after all, but then he says:

“Not the most graceful of exits, no. But damn smart. Which you are not.” Pivots, like the solider he undoubtedly is, and walks away.

And that’s not cute at all.

Nate dashes to follow. “Excuse me?”

Blue eyes flash at him with disgust. “If you want to die bloody in a foreign country, you might want to find a place where they’ll actually find your body.”

Why Nate’s hurt he doesn’t know, but his pride keeps him moving, widening his steps to keep up with the near frantic pace of his companion.

“I was doing recon, not that it’s any of your business,” Nate explains.

“Mission update: There be bad guys. I just saved your life.”

Nate frowns. “Why did you do that by the way?”

The man stops and Nate plows into him. It’s feels like running into a wall and the stranger stands just as still.

“I was bored,” he says, and his eyes, cold and hard and blank, back him up.

“You’re insane,” Nate breathes. It makes sense. Nate kind of is as well.

The man smiles with model perfect white teeth that stand out sharply against the grimy storefronts and blue sky. He holds out a long fingered hand and Nate shakes it without hesitation.

“I’m Brad,” he says, strange smile still in place. Even the damn sun doesn’t seem quite as bright.

Nate has just enough time to say his name, first name only, when the larger man pulls him by the hand he’s still holding into a deserted apartment lobby and pushes him against a wall. It smells of dirt and spicy food and Nate tries to get away for all of five seconds until Brad tilts his head up with his thumb and presses their lips together.

Brad tastes of sand and tobacco and there’s a promising hint of motor oil. His body is so hot, heavy as it settles against Nate like they’ve done this before. At the first hint of tongue, Nate opens his mouth and breathes deep of gunpowder and musky sweat. He moans when he knows he should be fighting.

Nate’s blinking in surprise when Brad pulls away. That look, staring, examining, makes a lot more sense now.

“I like you.”

“You do?” Nate asks intelligently.

Brad goes to his knees on the dusty linoleum. “Enough to suck your cock, captain.”

Nate’s on board with that. “Lieutenant,” he corrects offhand.

“Even better, LT.” Brad’s got his pants open now and Nate goes from kind of interested to rock hardness in seconds.

Brad smirks again, cocky motherfucker, then teases the head of his cock with tongue and sucks him down like a lollipop. There’s a sharp crack of worn plaster as Nate slams his head back into the wall.

This is the wrong place and time, but what the fuck, he just nearly died and Brad is a strange, hot, talented man.

Later, after Nate finishes coming his brains out and hears signs of life way too close to their position, he’s going to follow Brad to a ratty motorcycle hidden in the bush, get on as manfully as he can, and head back to Brad’s HQ.

Later, he’s going to ask why someone who should be on the cover of Men’s Health is schlepping around a war torn country with thousands of dollars worth of weaponry on his person. Then he’s going to meet Ray, Brad’s rock star money bags.

Then, much later, Nate’s going to salivate over Brad’s rifle so much that he’ll let him play with his grenade launcher, oh, and his cock.

It’ll be payback for the evac, Nate will say. Mercenaries are good for that.


End file.
